


indulgence

by buttered_onions



Series: Find Home Again: Shiro Week 2017 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Pre-Season/Series 03, Shiro Week 2017, Ulaz-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttered_onions/pseuds/buttered_onions
Summary: When Shiro isn't there to greet him after a mission, Ulaz fears the worst.A fill for Shiro Week 2017, day three: break/mend.





	indulgence

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked me last week what the most self-indulgent piece of fic I've ever written is, and I remembered this draft existed.
> 
> I'm real predictable, okay.

Ulaz returns straight into the remnants of a battle.

Debris litters through the rendezvous point, massive pieces of shorn metal and floating cables trapped forever in the vacuum of space.It is a graveyard of aeronautical waste: a silent destruction, drifting and cold and dead. Ulaz guides his ship to a halt and frowns. The peaceful planet remains, untouched.

There is no sign of the Castle, or of Voltron.

Ulaz opens up a hailing frequency.

 

The Castle is hiding in a field of crystallized minerals, the beautiful pink sculptures floating in large clusters through space.

“I am so sorry,” Princess Allura says, greeting him personally when Ulaz’s ship finally touches down in the hangar. “You are earlier than expected. Was your meeting successful?”

“It was,” Ulaz says, shortly. “Is everyone well?”

“We are,” Princess Allura answers, just as brief. She has never been one for preamble, at least not that Ulaz has known.

The hangar is quite empty. Ulaz narrows his eyes. Allura tilts her head slightly in response. Ulaz answers with the briefest quirk of an eyebrow. They have warmed up to each other, Ulaz thinks. It would be impossible not to, after all that has happened in the last several spicolian movements: Ulaz’s survival from the space-time pocket. Destroying Zarkon’s base of operations. Losing Shiro. Rescuing him, together.

It is impossible not to feel a certain sense of camaraderie, too, even with the Princess. Ulaz had not expected this. He is grateful.

“I assure you, everyone is well,” Princess Allura continues, noting Ulaz’s skepticism. “Pidge, Hunk, and Lance are in the main lounge. I doubt they are still awake. Keith went to train.”

“Shiro?” Ulaz asks, before she can. “Is -“

Allura holds up her hand to ease his questions. Light weariness rests in her eyes, and the smallest of smiles is on her face - yes, that is a smile. Amusement. Ulaz is learning. “He is resting.”

The relief that floods through him should be shameful. It is weakness, to care so deeply. To worry so much, especially in the fragile uncertainty of war.

Ulaz has never been good at isolating weakness.

“I saw the destruction,” he says, instead. The space around the peaceful planet springs to mind, a graveyard of metal waste.

“We were ambushed,” Allura says, quietly, “Voltron was our only choice.”

Ulaz allows himself one moment to close his eyes.

“Shiro is resting,” Allura repeats, stepping forward with the slightest shift of her feet. No wonder she met him personally. “Coran is optimistic. A few more days’ rest -”

“Is our location secure?” Ulaz asks, instead.

“It is,” Allura says, blinking. “How did your meeting -”

Ulaz does not stay to hear the remainder of her question. Perhaps it is rude; perhaps Allura understands, regardless. He does not look back.

There are more important things to get on with.

 

A burst of noise explodes from the main lounge as he passes. Ulaz catches an exuberant glimpse of Lance and Hunk, Lance pushing his fist into the air and shouting at the rigged-up-projector-screen while Hunk groans in dismay. The green paladin - Pidge - is curled sideways into Hunk, only the tips of her boots visible where her toes hang over the edge of the sofa. They do not notice him. Ulaz moves on.

The sounds of battle from the training deck reach his ears next as he walks: the clash of swords and blades, scattered shouts and grunts as Keith trains inside. Ulaz should stop. He should see if Keith is fighting with his bayard, as usual, or with his Blade - still new. Ulaz should stop and offer opinions. Advice. Answers.

His feet move on.

He swings past the infirmary; past a lab with the door open, cheerful blue screens alight inside. Ulaz does not go in. One of the mice - no, two, Ulaz does not know which - skitter overhead along the thin beams of the ceiling. Ulaz pays them no mind. They are not his destination. They are not where his time needs to be spent.

At last Ulaz pauses outside the appropriate door. The door is closed, but not locked.

Ulaz hesitates.

He has full access, and has for some time. Since before the final attack on Zarkon - no. Since just after Ulaz’s return. Shiro has given all he has. Always has. Always will. There is no reason for Ulaz to hesitate.

Still -

No. Ulaz has been gone for too long. If Shiro does not want to see Ulaz he will say so himself. Wondering about _what ifs_ and _possibilities_ is not like Ulaz at all. When did he become this way?

Regardless, it is a waste of precious time. They have already lost so much.

Ulaz presses his palm to the access pad, and steps inside when the door admits him.

The lights inside are barely on, a dim ten percent brightened somewhat by the glow from the hall. The room is quiet, and sparse: there is nothing for Ulaz to pick his way over. The room is still, save for the slight stirring of the bed’s occupant, blinking against the encroaching light.

“Ulaz?” Shiro whispers. Surprise laces in the name; sleep underrides the two syllables. Ulaz woke him.

“Yes,” Ulaz says, easily, and steps fully inside. The door swishes shut, casting the room into near-darkness as Ulaz crosses the short length of the room to Shiro’s bedside. Shiro sleeps facing the door; he smiles up at Ulaz now, barely awake. There is a balance, here. An ease. A quiet calm Ulaz has learned to appreciate, to revere. “I am here. I am sorry I woke you.”

“'m glad you did,” Shiro says, just for him. His words slur together, laden with exhaustion. Ulaz crouches down by the bed, reaching out before he can help himself. He brushes his hand over the crown of Shiro’s head, fingers sifting carefully through Shiro’s small tuft of head-fur. Hair, Shiro calls it. Ulaz is learning this, too. Shiro blinks up at him, even as he leans slightly into the touch. The touch-starvation from his captivity still has not healed. “You’re early. How’d it go?”

“Well,” Ulaz says, simply.

“Keith?” Shiro asks, enough worry layered into the single syllable to fell cities. His voice is heavy, sleep-drunk.

“Kolivan has agreed he must be trained,” Ulaz says. Shiro sighs, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. “I am to begin Keith’s training, and remain here until otherwise instructed. Is that agreeable?”

“If Keith agrees,” Shiro murmurs. His eyes slid shut. He shivers again.

Ulaz rises; reaches towards the end of the bed - it is empty. Crosses the room to the cupboards and opens one by touch alone. He picks up one of the extra blankets stored there and carries it back to the bed, draping it across and around Shiro’s shivering form. Shiro burrows into the warmth unconsciously, gratefully.

“Go back to sleep,” Ulaz says, gently. Shiro hums, a distant noise deep in the back of his throat. “Princess Allura told me what happened.”

“Mm,” Shiro agrees. He’s still shivering, the blanket trembling with his chill. “Thanks. We didn’t - we didn’t have a choice. Lance was - he would’ve been - "

“Shh,” Ulaz says. It is a human sound, but it works. Shiro relaxes even further, his trembles lessening as Ulaz sits on the edge of the bed, places his large hand back atop Shiro’s head. “I am not questioning your methods. Merely inquiring as to your health.”

“I had enough,” Shiro murmurs. Ulaz carefully strokes through his hair; Shiro’s eyes flutter shut, even as he complains softly. “All I do is sleep. The quintessence - I had enough.”

When they’d found Shiro a little over two ‘weeks’ ago, the state in which he’d been had been gut-wrenching. Ulaz remembers the coordinated strike on the witch’s lair in frightening, vivid detail. He cannot get it out of his head. Breaking through the final door, the Paladins an angry cluster around him. A room full of machines, terrible machines Ulaz recognized and several he did not. The sheer number of wires and tubes that snaked from the machines to the pale and unconscious figure on the table. Ulaz remembers how Keith pushed past him, racing to Shiro’s side with a cry. How Shiro did not stir at the call of his name, the press of Keith’s hand to his cheek, the tug as Ulaz disengaged every tube and wire keeping Shiro imprisoned. How Shiro did not wake when Ulaz scooped him up from the experimentation table, supporting shoulders and knees. How Shiro’s head lolled against Ulaz’s chest, limp. How despite being unconscious he shivered, badly, weak and ill and exhausted and drained.

The three days in a cryopod, fifty-one terrible vargas. Ulaz had not moved until the timer went off, until Shiro stumbled out and nearly fell, until Ulaz could catch him and lower him to the ground. How badly Shiro was still shaking. How Coran had carefully examined him, how Shiro could barely keep his eyes open. How the other Paladins clustered around as the older Altean pronounced that the only cure for this type of injury was not a cryopod, but good ol’-fashioned _rest._

Quintessence is not something regained overnight. Shiro’s recovery has been slow and will be for some time. Longer, definitely, if he continues to push himself like this.

Ulaz cannot contain his frown. Voltron demands a high price from its pilots, the Black Lion most of all. For one usually stoked full of quintessence, strong and powerful and beaming bright, Voltron is not normally an issue. For one so tired?

Anger flares through Ulaz briefly, there and then squashed. At the witch. At the circumstances. At all of this. Shiro has already endured so much. He should not have to endure more.

“Hey.” A hand snakes out of the blankets; Shiro’s hand finds Ulaz’s wrist, where Ulaz has rested his other hand upon the bed. His grip is gentle. Sleepy eyes look out at him; Shiro smiles. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I had enough.”

“You are enough,” Ulaz agrees. Or doesn’t. There is much he has already learned; to say, or to do. This, he has not learned yet. He will, given time.

Time he fully intends him and Shiro to have.

In response Ulaz touches, careful and soft. His hand is heavy upon Shiro’s hair, gentle as he strokes. Shiro sighs and burrows back into his pillows, the single pillow he usually sleeps with joined by three of Lance’s and one Ulaz recognizes from Pidge.

“Go back to sleep,” Ulaz murmurs. Gentle affection blooms in his chest. It should be impossible to care so much for one so small, so battle-weary, so exhausted and still giving everything he has. Shiro has always given everything he has - to Voltron, to the arena, and to Ulaz. Ulaz still is not sure why he is continually surprised by this.

Shiro hums with contentment, a small noise in the back of his throat. No, Ulaz will never feel guilty, no matter what the Blade might think. Not for this.

Ulaz is still learning, yes, but in a subject he will gladly study for the rest of his life.

“Stay?” Shiro murmurs, and Ulaz does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you read, please consider leaving me a comment! Comments ~~feed the self-indulgence monster that means stuff like this exists~~ are just great, alright, that's it.  <3 Happy Shiro Week!


End file.
